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sprain - man proposes, god disposes كلمات الأغنية

it’s about control or lack thereof
a twist of fate, a change, a reversal
the ox turned butcher, the slave turned master
the band turned audience
cue the doe in headlights eye
response to roadk!ll diatribe
finally i am my own wind, ship, sails, and oar
i will be your target
i will stand here like an idiot with an apple on my head
while you hurl response like some blasphemous arrow
thus a guilt most crushing, a sisyphean guilt
a heart hidden beneath the floorboards guilt
william tell tale heart
a post_ej_cul_tion man upstairs watching guilt
wet potential smeared across your stomach guilt
and it’s entirely your own guilt
lacking any description worthy
to subsume in just simple words
is a disservice to the blank sensation of
when the sky has its way with you
and you burn up in the atmosphere
all creation whispers in your ear
“blessed is the dog defecating on your lawn, grinning”
inhale, exhale etcetera
animals eat animals etcetera
animals f_ck animals etcetera
do i have to spell it out for you?
the words printed in supernova bold:
“i am always riding these rotations around the sun
i am always riding this pretty bow tied on top, so tight as to never come undone”
the same joke twice but the second time louder
an ocean of intellectual people laughing
sailing idiot waters forever
while advertis_m_nts like nooses hang
covering up man proposes, god disposes
in preparation for a test taken in a play
i’m always writing in my head
and in it your character imagines
men hung up on meathooks in a butcher’s shop
and eyed by oxen dressed in fur coats and leather hats
animals eat animals ad infinitum
cast in a starring role as flesh
while everyone else you know plays motion
sparred details and generous skips to the good parts
signed by the sun with a wink and a thumbs up
dancing lucid in arachnid schemes

with arachnid reputation proceeding
so contrary to a familiar soft
a grasp for sense where there is none
sense is a spark between us
sense is a cross armed glance and silent nod between us
both shackled and accessed by a constant waltz
of pushing air and wagging tongues
the intimate marriage of sensation and response
an exchange of jargon from one orifice to the next
all my thoughts are “colorless green ideas sleep furiously.”
all my thoughts, every one
and through this i admire the farce of control
and my total lack of wind, ship, sails, and oar
every grip sustained on tangible artifact
is an amusing thought and nothing more

- sprain

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